Hand Warmers

When I think I am about to forget,

I hold my memories like warm pebbles in a pocket, so I can remember the sun.

For soon and again,

The heavy-spinning world will weave a black shrouded cloak for Morning;

The Night will smother dewy expectations with his frosted mandate:

‘Wait.’

Then I will lie expectantly still, frozen and fragile,

Asleep in the fitful chill of darkness until there’s light enough to smell Hope again.

With the dawning of day, I will melt.

Unshackled by the sweet southern wind,

I will laugh as Morning bares her shoulders in love to the sun’s adoration,

Kissing my soul alive and whispering to my heart:

‘Wake up!’

Then Hope will clear her lungs and begin to sing.